Rogue Lawyer

by John Grisham

  above his right eye and widens it with a relentless barrage. The Jackal has the bad habit of throwing a wild fake left hook just before he ducks and comes in low at the knees, and he tries this one time too often. Tadeo reads it, times it perfectly, and executes his finest trick, a blind elbow spin, a move that takes balls because for a split second his back is turned to his opponent. But the Jackal is too slow and Tadeo’s right elbow crushes into the right jaw. Lights out. The Jackal is out before he lands on the mat. The rules allow Tadeo to pounce on him for a few shots to the face, to properly finish him off, but why bother? Tadeo just stands in the center of the ring, hands raised, staring down, admiring his work as the Jackal lies as still as a corpse. The referee is quick to stop it all.

  Somewhat nervously, we wait a few moments as they try and revive him. The crowd wants a stretcher, a casualty, something to talk about at work, but the Jackal eventually comes to life and starts talking. He sits up, and we relax. Or try to. It’s not easy staying calm in the aftermath of such furious action, when you have something at stake, and when five thousand maniacs are stomping their feet.

  The Jackal gets to his feet and the maniacs boo.

  Tadeo walks over to him, says something nice, and they make peace.

  As we leave the cage, I follow Tadeo and smile as he slaps hands with his fans and soaks up another win. He made a couple of boneheaded moves that would get him killed against a ranked opponent, but all in all it was another promising fight. I try and savor the moment and think about the future and the potential earnings, maybe some sponsorships. He’s the fourth fighter I’ve invested in and the first one who’s paying off.

  Just before we leave the floor and enter the tunnel, a female voice yells, “Mr. Rudd! Mr. Rudd!”

  It takes a second or two for this to register because no one in this crowd should possibly recognize me. I’m wearing an official Team Zapate trucker-style rap cap, a hideous yellow jacket, and different eyeglasses, and my long hair is tucked away. But by the time I pause and look, she’s reaching for me. A heavyset woman of twenty-five with purple hair, piercings, enormous boobs exploding from just under a skintight T-shirt, pretty much the typical classy gal at the cage fights. I give her a curious look and she again says, “Mr. Rudd. Aren’t you Mr. Rudd, the lawyer?”

  I nod. She takes a step even closer and says, “My mother is on the jury.”

  “What jury?” I ask, suddenly panicked. There’s only one jury at the moment.

  “We’re from Milo. The Gardy Baker trial. My mom’s on the jury.”

  I jerk my head to the left, as if to say, “That way.” Seconds later we’re off the floor and walking side by side along a narrow corridor as the walls shake around us. “What’s her name?” I ask, watching everyone who passes.

  “Glynna Roston, juror number eight.”

  “Okay.” I know every juror’s name, age, race, job, education, family, residence, marital history, prior jury service, and criminal record, if any. I helped select them. Some I wanted, most I did not. I have been sitting in a packed courtroom with them five days a week for the past two weeks, and I’m really getting tired of them. I think I know their politics, religions, biases, and feelings about criminal justice. Because I know so damn much, I’ve been convinced since they were seated that Gardy Baker is headed for death row.

  “What’s Glynna thinking these days?” I ask cautiously. She could be wearing a mike. Nothing surprises me.

  “She thinks they’re all a bunch of liars.” We’re still walking, slowly, going nowhere, each afraid to look the other in the eyes. I am stunned to hear this. Reading her body language and knowing her background, I would bet the farm that Glynna Roston would be the first to yell “Guilty!”

  I look behind us to make sure there’s no witness, then say, “Well, she’s a smart woman because they are lying. They have no proof.”

  “Do you want me to tell her that?”

  “I don’t care what you tell her,” I say, looking around as we stop and wait for one of the heavyweights to pass with his entourage. I have $2,000 on the guy. I’m up $6,000 for the night and I’m feeling pretty good. And to top it off, I’m hearing the shocking news that not all of my Gardy Baker jurors are brain-dead.

  I ask, “Is she alone, or does she have buddies?”

  “She says they’re not discussing the case.”

  I want to laugh at this. If she’s not discussing the case, then how does this cutie know how her mother’s leaning? At this precise moment, I am violating the rules of ethics and perhaps a criminal statute as well. This is unauthorized contact with a juror, and though it’s not clear-cut, and not instigated by me, there’s no doubt it would be interpreted badly by the state bar association. And Judge Kaufman would blow a gasket.

  “Tell her to stick to her guns because they’ve got the wrong guy,” I say, and walk away. I don’t know what she wants and there is nothing I can give her. I guess I could take ten minutes and point out the glaring deficiencies in the State’s evidence, but that would require her to absorb it all correctly and then give an accurate report to her mother. Fat chance. This gal is here for the fights.

  I take the nearest stairway to a lower level, and as soon as I’m safely away from her, I duck into a restroom and replay what she said. I still can’t believe it. That jury, along with the rest of the town, convicted my client the day he was arrested. Her mother, Glynna Roston, gives every indication of being the model Milo citizen—uneducated, narrow-minded, and determined to be a heroine for her community in its time of need. Monday morning will be interesting. At some point, after we resume testimony, I’ll get the chance to glance into the jury box. So far Glynna has not been afraid to return my looks. Her eyes will reveal something, though I’m not sure what.

  I shake it off and return to reality. The heavyweight fight lasts for a full forty seconds with my favorite still standing. I can’t wait to reconvene with my little gang. We meet in the same dark room with the door locked, and the trash talk is brutal. All six of us pull cash from our pockets. Frankie has the notes and keeps it all straight. For the evening, I’ve netted $8,000 from my wagers, though $2,000 of this will go to Tadeo for his impromptu bonus. I’ll get it back from his cut of the purse. That will go on the books for IRS purposes; this cash will not.

  Tadeo earns $8,000 for his efforts, a great night that will allow him to add another gang member to his entourage. He’ll pay some bills, keep the family afloat, save nothing. I’ve tried to offer financial advice, but it’s a waste of time.

  I stop by the locker room, hand over the $2,000, tell him I love him, and leave the arena. Partner and I go to a quiet bar and have some drinks. It takes a couple to settle me down. When you’re that close to the action, and you’ve got your own hitter in the ring two seconds away from a concussion or a broken bone, and five thousand idiots are screaming into your ears, your heart races wildly as your stomach flips and your nerves tingle. There’s a flood of adrenaline like nothing I’ve ever felt.

  8.

  Jack Peeley is a former boyfriend of the mother of the two Fentress girls. Their father was long gone when they were murdered, and their mother’s apartment was a revolving door for local tomcats and slimeballs. Peeley lasted about a year and got the boot when she met a used-tractor dealer with a little cash and a house without wheels. She moved up and Peeley moved out, with a broken heart. He was the last person seen near the girls when they disappeared. Early on, I asked the police why they did not treat him as a suspect, or at least investigate him, and their lame response was that they already had their man. Gardy was in custody and confessing right and left.

  I strongly suspect Jack Peeley killed the girls in some sick act of revenge. And, if the cops had not stumbled onto Gardy, they might have eventually questioned Peeley. Gardy, though, with his frightening appearance, satanic leanings, and history of sexual perversion, became the clear favorite and Milo has never looked back.

  According to the Bishop, who is relying on his low-life so
urces, Peeley hangs out almost every Saturday night at a joint called the Blue & White. It’s about a mile east of Milo and was originally a truck stop. Now it’s just a redneck dive with cheap beer, pool tables, and live music on the weekends.

  On Saturday night, we ease into the gravel parking lot at around ten, and the place is packed, wall-to-wall pickups. We have our own, a rented Dodge club cab with Ram power and big tires, perhaps a bit too shiny for this joint but then it belongs to Hertz, not me. Behind the wheel, Partner is pretending to be a redneck but is a pathetic excuse for one. He’s ditched his daily black garb and is wearing jeans and a Cowboys T-shirt, but it’s not working.

  “Let’s do it,” I say from the front passenger’s seat. Tadeo and Miguel jump from the rear seat and casually walk through the front door. They’re met just inside by a bouncer who wants ten bucks each for the cover. He looks them over and does not approve. They are, after all, darker-skinned Hispanics. But at least they’re not black. According to the Bishop, the Blue & White will tolerate a few Mexicans but a black face would start a riot. Not that there’s anything to worry about. Such a cracker dive has zero appeal to any sensible black guy.

  But a riot is what they’ll get anyway. Tadeo and Miguel order a beer at the crowded bar and do a passable job blending in. They get some stares but nothing bad. If these fat, drunk rednecks only knew. Tadeo could take out any five with his bare hands in less than a minute. Miguel, his brother and sparring partner, could take out four. After fifteen minutes of surveying the crowd and getting the layout, Tadeo flags a bartender over and says in unaccented English, “Say, I need to get some money to a guy named Jack Peeley, but I’m not sure I can recognize him.”

  The bartender, a busy man, nods to a row of booths near the pool table and says, “Third booth, the guy with the black cap on.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  They order another beer and kill some time. In Peeley’s booth there are two women and one other man. The table is covered with empty beer bottles, and all four are chomping away on roasted peanuts. Part of the ambience of the Blue & White is that you toss your empty shells onto the floor. At the far end a band cranks up and a dozen folks ease that way for a dance. Evidently, Peeley is not a dancer. Tadeo sends me a text: “JP spotted. Waiting.”

  They kill some more time. Partner and I sit and watch and wait, nervous as hell. Who can predict the outcome of a brawl in a roomful of drunken idiots, half of whom carry NRA membership cards?

  Peeley and his buddy head to a pool table and get ready for a game. Their women stay in the booth, eating peanuts, swilling beer. “Here we go,” Tadeo says and drifts away from the bar. He walks between two pool tables, times it perfectly, and bumps hard into Peeley, who’s minding his own business and chalking up his cue. “What the hell!” Peeley yells angrily, hot-faced and ready to kick a wetback’s ass. Before he can swing his cue, Tadeo hits him with three punches that no one can possibly see. Left-right-left, each landing on an eyebrow, where the cuts are always easier, each drawing blood. Peeley goes down hard and it will be a while before he wakes up. The women scream and there’s the usual rumble of activity and loud voices as a melee unfolds. Peeley’s friend is slow to react but finally pulls back his stick to take off Tadeo’s head. Miguel, though, intervenes and lands a hard fist at the base of his skull. Peeley’s friend joins Peeley on the floor. Tadeo pounds Peeley’s face a few more times for good measure, then ducks low and darts into the men’s restroom. A beer bottle cracks and splashes just above his head. Miguel is right behind him, angry voices calling after them. They lock the door, then scramble through a window. They’re back in the pickup seconds later, and we casually drive away.

  “Got it,” Tadeo says eagerly from the backseat. He thrusts his right hand forward and it is indeed covered with blood. Peeley’s blood. We stop at a burger place, and I carefully scrape it clean.

  It’s midnight before we make it back to the City.

  9.

  The monster who killed the Fentress girls bound their ankles and wrists together with their shoelaces, then threw them in a pond. During Jenna’s autopsy, a single strand of long black hair was found wrapped up in the laces around her ankles. Both she and Raley had light blond hair. At the time, Gardy had long black hair—though the color changed monthly—and not surprisingly the State’s hair analysis expert testified that there was a “match.” For over a century, true experts have known that hair analysis is wildly inaccurate. It is still used by authorities, even the FBI, when there’s no better proof and the suspect has to be nailed. I begged Judge Kaufman to order DNA testing with a sample of Gardy’s current hair, but he refused. Said it was too expensive. We’re talking about a man’s life.

  When I was finally allowed to view the State’s evidence, of which there was virtually none, I managed to steal about three-quarters of an inch of the black hair. No one missed it.

  Early Monday morning, I ship by overnight parcel the hair and the sample of Jack Peeley’s blood to a DNA lab in California. It will cost me $6,000 for a rush job. I’ll bet the ranch I find the real killer.

  10.

  Partner and I speed away to Milo for another grueling week of lies. I’m eager to get my first glance at Glynna Roston, juror number eight, and see if there are any telltale signs of backdoor communications. Typically, though, things do not go as planned.

  The courtroom is once again packed and I marvel at the crowd. For the eleventh court day in a row, Julie Fentress, the mother of the twins, sits on the front bench, directly behind the prosecutor’s table. She’s with her support group and they glare at me as if I killed the girls myself.

  When Trots finally arrives and opens his briefcase and goes through the motions of pretending to be of some value, I lean down and tell him, “Watch juror number eight, Glynna Roston, but don’t get caught.” Trots will get caught because Trots is a blockhead. He should be able to covertly glance at the jurors and gauge their reactions, study their body language, see if they’re awake or interested or pissed, do all the things you learn to do in a trial when you’re curious about your jury, but Trots checked out weeks ago.

  Gardy is in relatively good spirits. He’s told me he enjoys the trial because it gets him out of his cell. They keep him locked down in solitary, usually with the lights off because they know he killed the Fentress twins and the harsh punishment should start now. My spirits are better because Gardy took a shower over the weekend.

  We kill some time waiting for Judge Kaufman. Huver, the prosecutor, is not at his table at 9:15. His gang of Hitler Youth assistants have deeper frowns than usual. Something is going on. A bailiff appears and whispers to me, “Judge Kaufman wants to see you in chambers.” This happens almost every day, it seems. We run back to chambers to fistfight over something we want to keep away from the public. But why bother? After two weeks, I know that if Huver wants the crowd to see or hear something, it’s going to happen.

  I walk into an ambush. The court reporter is there, ready to capture it all. Judge Kaufman is pacing, in his shirt and tie, robe and coat hanging on the door. Huver stands smug and grim-faced by a window. The bailiff shuts the door behind me and Kaufman throws some papers on the table. “Read this!” he growls.

  “Good morning, Judge,” I say, as smart-ass as possible. “Huver.”

  They do not respond. It’s a two-page affidavit in which the deponent, or in this case the liar, claims she bumped into me the previous Friday night at the MMA fights in the City, and that I discussed the case with her and told her to tell her mother, a juror, that the State had no evidence and all their witnesses were lying. She signed it Marlo Wilfang before a notary public.

  “Any truth to it, Mr. Rudd?” Kaufman growls, really steamed up.

  “Oh, a little, I suppose.”

  “You wanna tell your side of the story?” he asks, obviously not ready to believe a word I say. Huver mumbles loud enough to be heard, “Clear case of jury tampering.”

  To which I snap,
“You wanna hear my side first or you wanna string me up without all the facts, same as Gardy?”

  Judge Kaufman says, “That’s enough. Knock it off, Mr. Huver.”

  I tell my version, accurately, perfectly, without a single word of embellishment. I make the point that I’ve never met this woman, wouldn’t know her from Eve—how could I?—and that she deliberately sought me out, initiated the contact, then couldn’t wait to hustle back home to Milo and try to insert herself into this trial.

  Often it takes a village to properly convict a killer.

  Almost yelling, I say, “She says here I initiated contact? How? I don’t know this woman. She knows me because she’s been in the courtroom, watching the trial. She can recognize me. How am I supposed to recognize her? Does this make any sense?”

  It doesn’t, of course, but Huver and Kaufman won’t budge. They are convinced they have me nailed. Their hatred of me and my client is so intense they can’t see the obvious.

  I hammer away: “She’s lying, okay? She deliberately planned all of this. She bumped into me, had a conversation, then prepared this affidavit, probably in your office, Huver, and she is lying. That’s perjury and contempt of court. Do something, Judge.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me—”

  “Oh, come on. Get up off your ass and do the right thing for a change.”

  “Listen, Mr. Rudd,” he says, red-faced and ready to take a swing at me. I want a mistrial at this point. I want to provoke these two into doing something really stupid.

  Loudly, I say, “I want a hearing. Keep the jury out, call this fine young lady to the witness stand, and let me cross-examine her. She wants to get involved in this trial, bring her on. Her mother is obviously biased and unstable and I want her off the jury.”

  “What did you say to her?” Kaufman asked.

  “I just told you, word for word. I told her the same thing I would say to any other person on the face of this earth—your case is built on nothing but a bunch of lying witnesses and you have no credible proof. Period.”

  “You’ve lost your mind,” Huver says.

  “I want a hearing,” I practically yell. “I want this woman off the jury and I will not proceed with the trial until she’s gone.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Kaufman asks as things spin rapidly